Dear John : Letters from the Frontline
by ChelsaOfBakerStreet
Summary: John Watson is your everyday Army Medic. Sherlock Holmes leads a team of Special Ops bomb squad men. They're forced into one another's paths and share their lives through pen and paper.
1. Prologue

_A/N : So my friend Emily and I are writing this together. I am the voice of Sherlock and she is John, I hope you enjoy!_

* * *

"Hurry John, he's been shot!" a voice yelled at John as body was pressed into his vicinity, red contrasting sharply with the man's pale skin. As the face came into view John looked upon one Corporal Sherlock Holmes. "Holmes," John whispered as he began peeling away the soldier's clothing to get to the wounds from the gunshot the man had received. John pressed the wound, keeping it from bleeding and Holmes' eyes fluttered open, the blue eyes striking as they met John's. "Stay with me Holmes," John whispered as they transferred him to a makeshift surgery table. John pulled back the man's sleeve and was happy to see that the bullet had nicked the soldier, a small gash cut cleanly on his arm.

He had one of his nurses clean the wound while he clasped onto Holmes' hand as the sanitizer stung. The man flinched but never cried out, squeezing John's hand only once during the process. John bandaged the wound, taking care to not put too much pressure on the spot. "You're going to be just fine Holmes, just fine."

* * *

John always took time to talk to Sherlock, checking on him every hour. He had seen many men come through the medic tent but none with haunting blue eyes like Sherlock's. He found the man to be an amazing conversationalist, when he actually spoke. Sherlock was brilliant, observing more about the people around him than John thought possible.

John would share stories with Sherlock, tales of bachelorhood from before the war and Sherlock would astound John with stories of solving crimes before the police. These times were John's favorite, when he was allowed to see just a small glimpse of humanity once again. Sherlock grounded him, and John liked to believe he did the same to the strange man. "How was it you ended up here instead of somewhere else with your genius and all that?" John asked one day.

Sherlock gave John this strange, sad smile and pulled a picture out of his pocket. John took it and saw an impeccably dressed man holding a large black umbrella. "My brother, he's high up in the British government. I'm pretty sure he did this to stop me-" Sherlock trailed off, closing his eyes.

"To stop you what Sherlock?" John asked, intrigued to know that one person could actually force another to join the Army.

"To stop me from using cocaine," he said quietly, resting his head back on the pillow. "At first I thought it was another of his bloody pranks, but no, Mycroft meant this, said it was for the best and that I couldn't back out now."

"That's bloody awful, to force someone into the service. Not to say I don't think your brother had good intentions, I just don't know if that was the smartest decision y'know?" John was shocked to learn that the man in front of him used to use drugs. He never would have known and he was a doctor. Whether it had been morally sound or not, Sherlock's brother had really helped Sherlock.

"Yeah, well Mycroft hasn't been the best at making sound decisions when it comes to me. He can make any head of government come at his call, but I never would listen to him."

John shook his head. "You two sound like quite the pair. I couldn't imagine the Christmas dinners."

"Of mummy always made Mycroft and I behave. You wouldn't dare act out in front of her."

"Ah, I see. Christmas dinners at the Watson household were always fun because of the extended family. We had cousins come that I didn't even know I had. It was utter chaos. But, if you want my personal opinion, I'm glad you're off the drugs Sherlock, you're healthy and you have an amazing mind."

Sherlock nodded curtly, not understanding why this man would care about him so much. "Well, I'll take your word for it since you're a doctor and all."

"Good. Now get some rest, you need to heal." John checked all of Sherlock's vital signs once more before leaving the man to rest.

"Doctor Watson?" Sherlock called before the man had shut the door.

"John," John answered, turning back around, "please call me John. Now, what do you need?"

"John then, I just wanted to say thank you."

"You're quite welcome Sherlock, you know, I think with your mind, when you get out of the service you'll do great things."

Sherlock watched as John left the room and tried to understand this man. As a military doctor he was sure to have seen horrible things, yet he was one of the most optimistic men Sherlock had ever met. John was also one of the few people Sherlock had met that actually cared about people.

* * *

Soon, almost too soon John thought, Sherlock was healed enough to leave the medic tent and return to his spot on the front.

John disliked the quiet of the medic tent without Sherlock. The other men under his care either slept or swore all day and John wished for the quiet sincerity of Sherlock once more. The two men had formed a strange sort of friendship over the weeks that led to John staying closer to Sherlock's bedside than anyone else. One of John's nurses had asked about it, why he spent so much time with the corporal and it had taken John a while to answer. He had told them he just appreciated the corporal's wit and sarcasm more than the blunt obscenities of the other men they were taking care of, but that hadn't been the only reason he sat next to the bed every day. He had sat there, losing himself in conversation with Sherlock each night because Sherlock helped him escape. When they conversed, John was transported to someplace far away from the battlefield and the gruesome images he was faced with from day to day. He found himself in his imaginary flat where he and Sherlock were good mates, sitting around having a cuppa and carrying on about the mundane duties of a civilian life.

* * *

Sherlock fought on the frontlines, bullets flying past him and men falling occasionally. He beared the heat, swallowing small gulps of water from his canteen when he could find the time. It wasn't pretty and it sure as bloody hell wasn't fun, but he kept on going, serving Queen and Country with all he had.

Sherlock craved the quiet evenings. Quiet only in the sense that the grenades weren't blasting and machine guns weren't rapidly firing. The men in his bunker were boisterous, always singing some drinking song and starting friendly rows. Sherlock found himself missing the peaceful quietness of the hospital tent. In there it seemed that even the sounds of the war were muted somehow as if they were two completely different worlds. He lay in his cot, the men in his unit singing drunkenly and playing poker, they long since stopped allowing Sherlock to play, he won every time and they lost all types of rations. It wasn't his fault they were awful at hiding what their hands held, Sherlock simply read what to do in their faces.

Even now, Sherlock sat there, paper and pen next to him as he thought about penning a letter to Mycroft or mummy, to let them know he was still alive. He occasionally thought about heading off to the medic tent to visit with Doctor Watson, but he knew there were men in the tent that needed Watson's attention more than he.

That's when Sherlock had what he believed to be one of his most brilliant ideas ever. He would write to John, allowing the letters to get to the man through other officers he knew that would pass through the tent to visit buddies healing. It was a good plan; Sherlock never regretted it, even to this day. Smiling to himself, he picked up his pen and paper and began to write, his pen flowing fluidly over the paper with his neat cursive gracing the pages.

* * *

**Reviews are awesome! **


	2. Valedictions

_Dear John, _

_I know with the battle drawing closer to our lines, you must have your hands quite full. I thought I might be able to converse with you via the written word better than taking up your time and visiting you personally. I have friends that can take these to you on their way to visit friends, or I might leave it with you myself, who's to say what will happen?_

_Believe it or not, but I miss the medic tent. I miss the quietness of everything in there, even the smell of sterilizing fluids. The men in my tent are loud and reek of sweat and blood. Believe it or not, they disallowed me from joining their poker games due to the fact that one man lost his cigarette rations for a week and I took all the fags off another in one game. It's not my fault I learned their tells quickly, all one needs to do is pay attention. Once they realized they would never win with me playing they kindly asked me to leave the table and have told anyone who plays to never let me ante again. Rubbish I say because they could all learn a thing or two from me if they really wanted. _

_I hope everything is going well on your end, though I can't say I believe you have much stimulating conversation to go on with me gone. I pity you for the simple fact that you have to deal with whiny men who have gotten hurt in the line of duty and want to be invalided home for a mere scratch. I may have been forced in, but I was shot and I'm still here. _

_I imagine they'll try to give me a medal or something of the sort for being wounded in action, rubbish and a waste of money. Everything pertaining to this stint in Iraq will be locked up with other possessions that my brother will force me to keep but I will never want to look at again. I fear my brother would bury me in my digi-cams if I die before him, much to my dismay. But alas, he's my brother and I would expect no less of him. That's Mycroft though, sent to this earth to torture his brother by any means necessary, but isn't there a saying, 'that's what brothers are for' or some nonsense such as that? Anyway, _

Sherlock paused for a moment as an uproar broke out in the tent, a brawl starting because Anderson was accusing Michaels for cheating and it was at that point of the night where everyone was still on edge from the day so tensions were running high and it didn't take much to get them wound up and itching for a fight.

_I guess I should say thank you. Not just for patching me up, but for talking to me all those nights. It made the pain more bearable. When you get out maybe you should teach at Bart's, though the undergrads might be worse than the men you tend to now, though the cadavers in the mortuary will be much quieter. _

_I'll let you get back to tending wounds and stitching cuts, hope you don't see too many men in there tomorrow._

_Sincerely, Sherlock_

He had paused before penning the farewell, unsure how to sign it. John wasn't even really a friend, though if someone had asked Sherlock he gladly would answer that yes, he was friends with the good doctor. He folded and sealed the letter, scribbling John's name on the front and tucking it beneath his pillow. Neilson would be going to visit a friend in the tent tomorrow; their unit wasn't expected to be on the lines that day, instead they were being opted as backup in case of too many casualties or too little firepower.

* * *

Sherlock woke at five thirty, or a couple minutes before really, because their Sergeant was yelling for them to be up and on their feet in uniform in five, two minutes after Sherlock's eyes had opened. He cursed Mycroft for sending him here, the hot, dry, desert being the only thing to be seen for miles. The sun beat down on him and his unit daily, as they practiced drills and went on missions.

Sherlock was part of the Special Operations team, his particular unit designated to infiltrate the enemy camps and eradicate all breathing forms of the opposing side. It wasn't pretty and it wasn't fun, not by any stretch of the imagination. He had killed men in cold blood, either point blank range or the occasional sniper shot to the head. Sherlock was proud of his skills, best target shot the ops unit commander had seen, he'd almost swear Sherlock could shoot with 100 percentile accuracy blindfolded.

Although it was a rest day, they were expected to be up and at 'em, no lie-ins for the Special Ops unit under the command of Sergeant Tobias. He worked the men hard but that made them function like a well-oiled machine, Sherlock being the lead of the group. The men respected him, taking his quirks in stride. Sherlock couldn't have asked for a better unit of men to work with, though he felt like Anderson lowered the IQ of the entire unit at times, he had to admit that the man was invaluable when they were out scouring the grounds.

After morning routine Sherlock passed his letter off to Neilson, promising half his weekly ration of fags to the man if he'd take it. Neilson agreed and Sherlock parted ways with him, needing a cold shower and a nap.

* * *

Across the way Dr John Watson was attending to a rather noisy patient who didn't believe he'd been given enough morphine. These were the men John hated the most, eager to sign up to fight, but they whinged like children when injured in battle. John was ready to invalid this one home, and would when the supply truck came in three days.

He had just sat down for a short break when Neilson entered, waving to John as he walked to his buddy Hixon's bed. He tossed an envelope in John's direction and he caught it nimbly, tearing open the seal and scanning the contents.

He smiled as he read the first few sentences; not needing to glance at the name to see who it was from, his brain automatically supplying Holmes' deep voice to the sharp words. He laughed at the picture of Sherlock's tent mates not allowing him to partake in any more poker games, knowing their minds were duller than Sherlock's.

In not so many words, he missed the man. He missed stimulating conversation, intelligent thoughts instead of the incessant droning of the men under his care, wanting more of this or less of that. He slipped the note back inside the envelope and into a pocket of his trousers, standing up to attend one of his patients that had suffered a neck wound. He was thankful for the ability to have a generator so that he could hook up machines, and for the air conditioner, though that was for the patients' comfort, not his own. He knew that was a reason men flocked to the medic tent for small things that a simple bandage would cure, so that they could get a respite from the heat of their own tents.

John relaxed into his cot, wounds dressed and men conked out on pain medication. He pulled out Sherlock's letter and reread it, laughing slightly at the way the man looked at life. He pulled out his own standard military issued stationary and set out to pen a letter back to the man.

_**Dear Sherlock,**_

_**I was pleasantly surprised by your letter. I would love if you visited. It would not take up on time; I would gladly sit and converse with you again. Luckily, it has been rather quiet around here. Only minor wounds, nothing serious, which is always good.**_

_**I also miss your company in the medic tent. You have left a mark and I just can't seem to fill it with conversations with the other patients. The quietness of the medic tent is blissful to the patients but to me, it is an asylum. I am always left to ponder my thoughts and keep myself company.**_

_**Well those men are simply poor losers. They need to win in order to feel achievement in their lives. It is most definitely not your fault for being observant. Maybe one day, they might learn how to beat you, I highly doubt it but it could happen. I hope you find something to pass the time away besides being excluded from poker. **_

_**I grew rather fond of our stimulating conversations. It was a nice change to all the cussing I hear every day. These men do nothing but cuss. If they aren't sleeping, they are cussing up and down about how they are injured. Don't pity me, I'm not the one that has to work with these men, you are. I would rather they go home then for them to go back on the line and get themselves injured again. You do not know how many people I've seen who've gotten the same injury twice. You, Sherlock, are far stronger than most men enlisted. There's something different about you.**_

_**They give you a medal to 'honour the fighting soldiers'. They just want to be able to say that they are appreciating the soldiers that are wounded or killed. It's rubbish but the bloody government will never change. The military is all about politics. There is even politics in the medic tents. Foolishness, it is. Doctors and politics do not mix. Do you not enjoy having possessions? Or do you have no need for the items? You and this Mycroft seem to have a rather complex relationship. I can only imagine your childhood together.**_

_**It was my pleasure. I also enjoyed your company. I am glad I made your stay more bearable. It was nice to have someone to talk to, someone who seemed to understand me. Thank you, Sherlock. You have helped me, if even in the simplest way possible. I don't think I'll ever be able to live such a simple life again. I feel as though my life would feel incomplete without the danger and fear I experience in the medic tents.**_

_**I will continue tending wounds and stitching cuts as you lead missions and outsmart enemies. I hope you are well.**_

_**Sincerely, John**_

John folded the letter and sealed it, placing it to the side to deliver tomorrow. He leaned back into his cot, folding his arms behind his head. He closed his eyes, the humming of the generator and beeping of monitors lulling him into a deep sleep.


	3. Family

John woke to the normal blaring of the morning wake-up call, wincing at the influx of sound, including that spewing from the mouth of his patients. He sent a curse at no one in particular, wanting to roll over and go back to sleep today more than ever. He passed the letter for Sherlock to the guy that took care of the inter-camp mail before checking on the guys in his tent. He made his rounds, redressing wounds and replacing morphine bags when needed. He woke up every morning and sent a small prayer up to the powers that be, asking for fewer wounded than the day before, or at least for less extreme wounds and no deaths.

* * *

Across camp, Sherlock was pulling on his Army standard-issue uniform, sandy coloured camouflage covering pale skin. Sherlock laced up his boots, grimacing at the thought of another day in the scorching sun. His unit had orders to scope out the area surrounding an enemy base a few miles ahead of the current frontline. They'd be catching a quick breakfast in the mess hall before the supply truck would take them as close as they could get without being spotted.

The plan was that half of the team would set up snipers on a small hill right before the outpost, led by Sherlock while the other half would go in at three in the morning to take out as many enemies as possible.

Sherlock made his way to the mess hall, bag on his back, grabbing food and a cup of orange juice before settling onto his tent's bench. Mail was being handed out, Sherlock ignoring it since he had long ago stopped expecting anything from his brother or Mummy. He found himself a bit surprised when a letter landed in front of his plate, his name written out in short, stocky letters. He tore open the envelope, shaking out the contents.

He shovelled food into his mouth as he read the letter, a smile forming on his face as he heard John's voice in his head, the doctor's tones sounding clearly in his mind. He tucked it away as the men around him began moving, He glanced at his watch, six forty-five seemed to come more quickly than he expected. He grabbed his pack and hefted it across his shoulders, following after the guys from his unit.

He climbed into the back of the truck, pressed between Hixon and Anderson as the truck began its travel across the bumpy desert. Each bump sent the men squishing into one another, swear words crashing out of their mouths when their heads collided with a ceiling or wall.

It was too soon it seemed that they were unloading into the evening sun, eyes squinting beneath helmets and ears trained for any unknown sounds. Sherlock sent his men outwards, setting up three sniper groups, clusters of men around a ready rifle, working in shifts all night long. The other men were working in a huddle, pulling out night vision goggles, heat sensors and silencers, all weapons needed for the night raid. It was deathly quiet, men straining to hear anything other than the night air and the click of metal and plastic.

* * *

Sherlock was settled into the small dip of the sand, sitting quietly as the two men slept next to him. He was on this watch along with Keener and Hills, the top three marksmen chosen to be awake during the raid shift. Sherlock tapped his watch, the dial illuminating and telling him he had a good hour and a half until anything began. He peered through the rifle scope, checking for any activity and upon finding none; pulled out the paper and pen he kept in his pack. He had originally kept it in case a mission went wrong, but he figured now was as good as any time to write back to Dr Watson.

_Dear John,_

_Perhaps it would be easier to visit if I weren't out doing raids at all hours of the night. That's the life of an Ops guy though I would suspect. The medic tent would be much cooler at the moment for I do not enjoy sweating in my uniform constantly. The desert is of course considerably cooler at night and what a blessed relief it is._

_As for possessions, I find no need to keep a medal I received for doing my duty. Why should I be singled out for being clipped by a bullet? I could easily get hurt much worse around my flat._

_Mycroft on the other hand is a story in and of himself. He and I have been at odds since I was born. With him being the eldest of the two of us has always seen himself as my protector. Unfortunately, as he grew older his methods of ensuring my protection became less moral and borderline insane. He holds a 'minor' position in the government, traffic division he assures me, I have deduced much more. The Christmas dinners as you can imagine were eventful to say the least. Mummy always thought we'd have a nice Christmas but My and I always ruined that. We were terrible. There was this one time with the pudding. _

_Mummy always had to have Figgie pudding; it was a staple of the Holmes Christmas table just as much as the Christmas goose and Cornish hen. Mycroft and I would stay in each other's hair, he chasing me around because I had stolen this or that, oh he thought was the smartest person you'd ever met, always smarter than me, and this particular day we were chasing through the sitting room. Mycroft was hot on my hells and we almost took out the chef, Monsieur__ L'__É__toile__, and he had the pudding in his hands. He yelled at us in French to which Mycroft quickly replied back, fluent in the language at this time. As a shared private joke, merely because the chef had made a rather rude comment about me, we decided to add a little something to the pudding._

_Fifteen minutes and a bottle of rum later, Mycroft and I were giggling as we stirred the liquid into the bowl, mixing it in before it set. We disposed of the bottle into the pond behind the house, erasing any evidence that we had been outside._

_Needless to say, by the end of the night Mycroft and I had officially been properly pissed for the first time, me at the ripe old age of five. Mummy questioned the chef who knew nothing. That conversation was hilarious to watch in our drunken stupor, Mummy occasionally slurring her words due to the alcohol. Unfortunately for us, our inebriated state led to our eventual demise. Mummy got the truth out of us eventually between fits of laughter. She took away my science equipment for a week and shut Mycroft out of the library for the same amount of time. Mycroft was insufferable for that week, pestering me about this or that. It was well worth it though; the chef was fired for choice words against me and my brother. Mummy went through a series of nanny's for the same reason, a few weeks of trying to keep the Holmes boys was enough for most of them. We ended up getting a reputation, but finally Mrs Sanderry stuck it out until Mummy hired her on as a housekeeper when Mycroft went off to college and I was finishing my tutoring. _

_So yes, there was always an adventure at the Holmes Mansion, especially when you have two kids with genius IQ's stuck together in a house with only nannies and tutors and other assorted staff._

_The team is about to head out so I'll stop for now, perhaps I'll come for a visit after we get back._

_Sincerely, Sherlock Holmes_

Sherlock tucked the letter into his bag and checked his watch, five minutes to go time; he needed to get ready to shoot. He rolled into position behind the sniper stand, checking that everything was visible in the scope before picking up his binoculars, sliding them onto the heat signature setting. He counted ten bodies with the possibility of three more near something else giving off a heat signature. He grabbed the walkie-talkie next to him and whispered, "We have ten accounted for and three more signatures near some sort of warm spot. The least group is in the farthest room of the building. Let's go in quiet, once you get in there try and send them running our way, we'll take 'em out up here."

A ten-four sounded from the captain of the rush group as they hefted guns and strapped helmets into place. Sherlock could feel the tension in the air as the group began its descent towards the building. He kept an eye trained through the scope, training his crosshairs on the door of the building in case something went wrong. He saw the small group of men move silently across the sand and around the building, crowding at the door before kicking it in and beginning the raid. From where he sat on the dune he could see the light from guns firing and hear the distinctive popping sounds. He kept his finger right in front of the trigger and as soon as the door opened and he saw someone that was obviously not part of his tem step out he was squeezing the trigger and sending a bullet flying into the man's heart. As soon as one body hit the ground and another stepped out Sherlock was sending another bullet with precise aim at his head, knocking him to the ground.

In total the raid took about an hour, only one man being wounded and all of the enemy forces being taken out before they could radio in. Sherlock was proud of his team, that they could do this in such a short amount of time with such minimal loss of life. It was a time to celebrate.

Sherlock radioed to their commanding officer that the area was secure and the bomb squads could come check the house out for anything that seemed out of place. Gregson radioed in his congratulations and coordinates for the next are they would be moving to, telling him there would be a supply truck coming for Karls as soon as he could rouse some men to drive.

Sherlock went to sit with the wounded man who'd taken a shot to the forearm, in the process of saving Hixon's life. He pulled out the letter he had written to John and tucked it into the man's pocket with a request that he give it to doctor Watson when he saw him.

* * *

John looked at the clock, barely oh-six-hundred that he was getting ready for the arrival of a man who'd been shot on a raid the night before. He had heard of the raid when he ran to get a quick bite of breakfast, the men at different tables cheering that more of the enemy forces had been taken down. John was glad of course, that the raid had been successful, but then Sergeant Gregson had tapped John's shoulder and quietly let him know that a supply truck was bringing a man back from the raid with a gunshot to the forearm.

John heard the rattle of the truck and made sure he had everything he needed on the tray before him. It wasn't bad, someone had cleaned and bandaged the wound so the area was clean and the bullet came out easier. He wondered for a moment if perhaps it had been Sherlock to do the dressing but forced himself back on task, re-bandaging the arm and giving the man a few tablets of paracetamol and helping him to a cot. The man pulled an envelope out of his pocket and handed it to John. "Lieutenant Holmes asked me to give you this."

John took the envelope from Karls and thanked the man, telling him to try and sleep for a while to forget the pain. He made his way around the tent, most of the men had been invalided home with the last supply plane and so he had just a few men with small cuts or scrapes sitting around. He sat behind the small desk provided for him and ignored the paperwork littered across it, he had plenty of time to catch up on that, and tore open the letter.

John read it through, laughing at the image of a young Sherlock and his brother completely pissed and their mother taking away what they cared about most. It made John miss home just a little bit, memories of his and Harry's life growing up together in their small home and making trouble for mum and da. Of course, when he was punished it was comics and television taken away, not science experiments, but he'd known Sherlock just long enough to understand he wasn't like most of the guys around.

He pulled out a sheet of paper and scrabbled around the desktop for a pen.

_**Dear Sherlock,**_

_**Well I hope you end up in the medic tent because you're visiting, and not because you've gotten yourself injured again. Raids are rather dreadful, though. The medic tent is the exact opposite. It is bloody hot at night, or maybe that's just me. I suppose my nightmares have gotten the best of me, considering I'm writing this at two o'clock in the morning. Sometimes I wonder if the other men hear my screams, I usually wake myself by my screaming. Though some nights it doesn't happen.**_

_**The higher ups seem to want to make the public feel as though the 'injured' are being recognized for their sacrifice to their country. I can't say I have many possessions either. I never am off duty for long enough to enjoy possessions. How dangerous is your flat? I am a little worried.**_

_**I know all about sibling rivalries. I have a sister, Harriet, whom I have never been close with. She has always thought of herself superior to me. She would never include me in her life, even as children. I remember once, when I was about five, I asked Harry if she wanted to play football with me in the backyard. She completely ignored me. So I decided that I'd get her attention. I went to her room and grabbed her favourite doll, and then I proceeded to cut the hair off of said doll and attempt to flush it down the toilet. Mother was furious, but Harry was enraged. She threw a fit, screaming and kicking things. I was rather smug about it. I even laughed, before Mother hit me. I was forced to apologize and had to buy her a new doll. But it was never the same for Harry; I knew that; she lost her favourite thing in the world. I would love to enjoy a Christmas at the Holmes mansion, it seems like it would be a blast.**_

_**A week without science experiments? How ever did you survive? It must have been traumatic. Though, I suppose if I were child and had had something I enjoyed taken away from me, I would be upset. **_

_**I would enjoy hearing, well reading, more stories of your life. It makes my day a little cheerier. The medic tent is dreadfully depressing. I hate seeing so many men in here.**_

_**I hope your raids are going well. I would offer to visit you, but I'm not allowed to know your location. So don't get yourself killed, okay?**_

_**Sincerely, John**_

John smiled as he wrote, the memory making him a bit nostalgic and he wished he could check up on Harry, make sure she was alright.

He thought about Sherlock, sleeping on a cot in the sand, waiting for the next raid and he was glad he was a doctor; he didn't have to give commands other than those to the nurses that helped him. In their respective ways he realised he and Sherlock held other people's lives in their hands, Sherlock giving orders to men out in the desert and John making choices on the operating table. They had a similar goal, to keep the men in their care alive, and that was something John understood very well.


	4. Revelations

_**A/N: I apologise for the delay, but the next chapter is almost finished as well so there won't be as long of a wait. Also, as I was re-reading the chapters I realised I had changed Sherlock's rank in there. I've decided to stick with Lieutenant because it made more sense that a Lieutenant would be a unit chief instead of a Corporal. Also, please note the rating change to an M for future chapters.**_

* * *

Sherlock grit his teeth as the truck bumped over the sandy road, kicking up clouds of dust that trailed behind him. The sun was bearing down on the desert and his uniform was stifling. Sweat trickled down his neck as the supply truck slowed. They were nearing the dump site, as far as the truck could get without being seen by enemy forces. Sherlock's unit would make the rest of the trek on foot, setting up at the crest of a sand dune nearest the enemy base. There was another unit coming in on this mission, the base consisting of three small houses. Sherlock's unit would split into two, one setting up snipers on the hill and the other raiding a house.

Sherlock didn't much like the Unit commander of the group coming to meet them, Lieutenant Jim Moriarty, but he had to respect the man. Moriarty was rough with his unit, a group of sharpshooters including the second-best sniper by the name of Sebastian Moran. Sherlock hated how Moriarty toted on Moran while forcing the others to run drills, constantly pushing the men harder and faster constantly.

* * *

Sherlock sat on a tarp, waiting for Moriarty to finish giving orders to his unit before they could sit down to discuss the plans for the evening. Sherlock had pinpointed the best places to infiltrate and had his unit split up by who were his best marksmen and who did better on raids.

Moriarty looked over Sherlock's plan for entirely too long In Sherlock's opinion before sighing and agreeing to it, showing Sherlock the list of men for the raid. Sherlock was thankful for the quick meeting, wanting nothing more than to get out of the gaze of a lecherous man.

Sherlock pulled the letter from John that had come with the supply truck, Commander Gregson having sent it his way. He smiled at the memory that John had written, understanding full well what it was like to have a sibling that got under your very skin. He checked his watch to make sure he had time before he pulled out paper to write back to John.

_Dear John,_

_I'm glad stories of my strange childhood can cheer someone up. It was always weird to other children when they found out I only had a Mummy. My da was a right bastard, up and left three years after I was born, around the same time I started my multiplication tables and annoyed Mycroft for more classical reading. He said he couldn't stand living with two terrors, not after having to deal with Mycroft for ten years and three with me. _

_Mummy did well with us though; she got the house and a large sum of money from da, including a handsome check from him monthly. It wouldn't have mattered either way because she was from a wealthy family. _

_Her parents loved us, proud to be related to such genius kids they always said. We would visit their estate on the weekends and pop bought me my first chemistry set. Nan loved to bake; I think that's why Mycroft has his strange addiction to cake, what with shoving his face full of it every weekend. _

_We would go on family outings; the five of us to parks, the zoo, most times we would just ride the horses around their estate or ours. Mycroft and I had learned to ride by the age of four, accompanying Mummy often when she would take Molly, her favourite, out to the pasture._

_Mycroft had a ridiculous looking horse he named Plato that would sometimes ignore what Mycroft wanted him to do, instead galloping off, but usually because I had urged it to do so. He loved that horse dearly though, brushing the tawny coat until it was glossy and feeding it sugar cubes._

_I myself rode a crème coloured stallion named Henry who was the smartest of all the horses. He was the easiest to tame and he and I had taken a liking to each other. Da's horse stayed in our stables and often I would take him out, the horse being a beautiful onyx colour, aptly named Ebony if not a bit cliché. Ebony would only allow me to touch or feed him by hand, Mycroft almost getting a finger bit off because of a carrot. _

_As I got older I had less time to ride and thinking back I miss those horses a lot. If only I could go back home to see Ebony standing there, waiting for a carrot as Henry whinnied in the stall next to him. Perhaps when I make it home I will purchase a horse if Mummy will allow me to keep it in her stable. There's no way I could keep a horse in my flat. That would be absurd. Not only because of the size but because of all the dangerous liquids and samples that fill most of the rooms. My life is an on-going experiment it seems, but I love it._

_I shall let you go though, I'm sure you could care less about my horses but I hadn't thought of them in a while, most often business taking over pleasure. _

_Your Friend, Sherlock_

Sherlock folded the letter and smiled, reminiscing about his childhood. True, his father had left but he never really missed the man, not with the way he had carried on or when he would beat one of the boys.

Sherlock's watch beeped to remind him he needed to command his unit so he tucked the letter into his bag and gathered his men around.

* * *

John Watson had his hands full. A unit had been raided the night before and he had three near-fatal wounds, two critical, a whole bunch of men that needed patch-ups, and a soldier sealed in a body bag, bullet lodged in his skull. John rushed around, thankful for the other medics at the moment, not-so-thankful that they all were under his charge. He extracted the bullets from two of the men, wrapping the wounds and getting them hooked up to blood bags. The other was a bit trickier and took him almost an hour to extract and bandage, the bullet having stopped inches from the man's heart.

John wanted nothing more than to find an empty bed and lie down in it for a good nap but instead grabbed a fresh cup of coffee and kept on going. He had almost exhausted with his supply of morphine and hoped that the supply truck would be there soon. John had to admit he also looked forward to Sherlock's next letter as the days wore on, the man being a sort of constant in his life of changing chaos.

John settled down onto his cot and re-read the letters from Sherlock, smiling at the script flowing across the page, hearing the deep, rich tones of Sherlock's voice in his head. John drifted off to sleep still holding the papers, dreaming of solace in the turmoil of his life.

John awoke to the blaring of a horn outside of his medic tent and nearly fell off his cot in alarm. HE quickly stole a glance outside, the sun barely peeking above the hills and saw the supply truck waiting for him. He sent a small prayer up for the supplies and helped unload the crates. The driver apologized for the early awakening, explaining that he needed to get out to a unit near the frontlines.

John nodded as the driver left and heard the distant whirring of the medic-copter and went to rouse the men that would be invalided to the closest hospital.

John had barely finished loading the men when the trumpets were sounding across camp, sending a morning wake-up for all the men. John wiped sweat from his brow before making his rounds and dressing quickly.

John had the morning shift that one of his help usually took but John had decided to take it to give them a break, meaning he would get breakfast when one of them brought it to him. Until then John just hoped that none of the men woke and needed extra morphine.

Marcus Hobson brought John's food at seven, along with a letter from Sherlock that John tore open immediately and read it while he shovelled food into his mouth. He tried to imagine Sherlock riding horses and found that it wasn't that hard; the man had a regal air about him, and great posture.

John's mind flitted to thoughts of his own father, a right bastard as Sherlock had said if there ever was one. John's father head hated everything John and his sister did, finding anything and everything he could to punish them for. John didn't talk about his parents much, could really care less about them. He felt the need to tell Sherlock about them though, to open up about his life as Sherlock had. John pulled a sheet of paper from the desk he was propped against and with what little peace he had for the rest of the day wrote back to Sherlock.

_**Dear Sherlock,**_

_**I am so sorry to hear that you had to grow up without a father, but you seemed to have a pretty good life without him. Your mother and grandparents sound lovely. I wish I had grown up in a family like that. I am envious of you.**_

_**My childhood was not as pleasant as yours. I grew up with both a mother and a father but I never had a family. My family was always about pretending. We looked like the happiest family in the world but that was simply an illusion. Behind closed doors, we were broken. My sister, Harry, and I were never the perfect children a fact father reminded us of daily. I had known Harry was gay from a young age, it was rather obvious to me but I didn't care. Both of our parents are homophobic. No, actually my father is homophobic; my mom is just too cowardly to speak against my father. She knew as well about Harry but never told my father, which was a first. Harry had to live with my father setting her up on dates with terrible boys and sometimes men. She was never allowed to be who she was. She told him once, that she was homosexual. He shouted and cursed and kicked her out of the house, she was seventeen at the time. My mother just watched as she left the house with nothing since my father said that everything she had was his. Thinking back to that day still breaks my heart.**_

_**My father wasn't kind to me either. He never approved what I did nor was he ever satisfied with my achievements. Although I received A's in school; he only wanted flawless 100% grades. I wanted to become a doctor, he wanted me to become a lawyer and take over his firm. I was a terrible child for not wanting to take over the family business so my dad decided that if he couldn't control my job then he'd control everything else.**_

_**I was engaged once, because of my father. He threatened not to pay for my tuition if I didn't marry this girl. Her name was Mary Morstan and I hated her. She was a terrible person and was cruel. I never loved her, I never even liked her. She was attractive to most but I wasn't attracted to her at all. Not that that ever stopped her. She had the self-control of a dog. She cheated on me countless times. When I told my father about it, he said, "Well son, if you could satisfy her yourself then she wouldn't have to go somewhere else for it." SHE SHAGGED OUR BUTLER AND MY FATHER TOOK HER SIDE. That's when I stopped. I stopped trying to please my dad, I stopped trying to get my mother to stand up for me, and I stopped pretending. I told my father that he could go fuck Mary then, because he cheated on my mother all the time. I told him that he could have his money because I didn't want it. Then I packed my things and left. I joined the military in order to pay for my schooling. **_

_**On an absolutely different note, your horses sound charming! I can tell that you really adored them. It must be hard not being able to have a horse now. Maybe one day, you'll be able to have a house with a stable so you can have horses once again. I think horses might be man's best friend not dogs. **_

_**I am sorry to have been so emotional in this letter and bore you with my tragic upbringing. If you wish to no longer write with me, I would understand. I wish you the best in the days, maybe weeks to come. **_

_**Hopefully Still Your Friend,  
John**_

John stared at the paper, breathing in heavily as he finished the letter, years of hurt and pain spilling out onto the page as he began writing. He felt nothing but hatred for his father, the man that had repressed his own children for years, never allowing them be who they wanted. John wondered if Sherlock would read the letter and understand what he was hinting at and suddenly John was terrified. He had never told anyone outright that he was gay, much less someone that he barely even knew.

John finally decided to hell with it all and wrote the valediction in hopes that Sherlock wouldn't write him off. He would find time before dinner to drop it off in the inter-camp mail and hope that a supply truck would be leaving soon for wherever Sherlock was.

* * *

It had been three days of searing heat and insufferable men. If Sherlock heard one more complaint he feared he might begin to snipe his own men, or those from Lieutenant Moriarty's unit. Yes, Sherlock was hot, yes, Sherlock was tired but you damn well could bet Sherlock was not whinging about it every fifteen seconds. Good god if these men wanted it easy they should have applied for the Queen's guard not the bleeding Royal Army. Sherlock pressed the heels of his palms to his eyes and thought back to the solitude of Dr Watson's - no - John's medic tent and wondered if he could find a way to be grazed by a bullet. It hurt like hell, yeah, but he would be able to spend more time with the man and he'd get a bit of peace and quiet.

He was ignoring the remarks of one Jim Moriarty when the supply truck came rumbling over the hill and Sherlock hoped for a letter from John. He hadn't meant to ramble on about his childhood but it had been nice to talk about it. He wondered what story John would have for him, finding these gems from the man's life extremely interesting.

When the driver yelled that he had mail Sherlock jogged over to the supply truck and took the proffered envelope, his name written in John's handwriting. He shoved the envelope into a pocket of his uniform and began to unload supplies, enough for a week at the least not knowing how long they would be out on the assignment.

Sherlock broke his men up into groups to sort through the new provisions, water carriers being swapped from the makeshift camp to the truck to be filled so that the men would stay hydrated. Food provisions were stored in a container so that wildlife would stay away and not give out their position to enemy forces. Ammunition was locked in crates in Sherlock and Moriarty's tents where they gave it out as needed for raids.

By the time Sherlock made it back to his tent he was exhausted, the sun wearing him down as time went on and his men giving him a headache. He pulled John's letter from his pocket and smoothed it out where it had gotten a bit crumpled whilst he was unloading and organising supplies.

He read the letter through, becoming thoroughly disgusted with the people John had as parents and came out wanting to strangle this Mary Morstan woman. Sherlock reread the letter, picking up on a subtle hint that he was hoping he wasn't adding to the tone of the letter. Was John hinting that not only had his sister lead an alternative lifestyle compared to what their parents had thought normal, but John had as well?

Sherlock had always been secure in his sexuality, Mummy not caring one way or the other whom Sherlock and Mycroft fell in love with. Sherlock had known from a teenager and onwards that he liked men, but he had never thought of it as being strange, that was until grade eleven when two of his close male friends had attended a school dance together and had promptly been escorted from the building and outraged parents wrote into the school and papers about allowing such perversions. From then on Sherlock had kept his preferences to himself, and went back to private tutoring, one year of private school being enough for the 'weird kid' as everyone had thought him. After school he had attended college before finding drugs as a source of opening his mind and landed in the Army, stuck in this desolate desert of Afghanistan.

Sherlock thought about how to approach the subject, wondering if in fact John was gay, if the man was interested in him, a subject completely foreign to Sherlock. Perhaps he would hint at it as well, skirt the subject until he had more information.

_Dear John, _

_Your father and Mary sound like terrible people and a man as kind-hearted as you shouldn't have had to deal with that. I'm glad to see you made it out okay though, seeing as you're an Army doctor and a great man to boot. _

_I guess I was lucky to grow up how I did. I don't think it matters to Mummy whether Mycroft and I fancy blokes or birds; it's all kind of up in the air. Mycroft says he's too busy for romance and I've yet to meet anyone stimulating enough yet. Then again, I haven't looked either. I've always been so focused on my experiments and all that I guess I could say I'm married to my work in a way. _

_Not that I think companionship and love, though the latter is a matter of simple endorphins released when one sees a person they care for, are dull and pointless, it just seems safer for me to be alone. I keep long hours, tend to have a rocky temperament, often speak my mind without thinking, and find most common people dull. How I've even kept your interest so long surprises me, I thought surely by now that you would have run screaming away. _

_Though it seems that you and I are alike in some ways, growing up in broken homes, though yours much more miserable than mine ever was. I'm certain there are other similarities but that still doesn't mean that you would find my company easy to keep. The men in my unit like me because I'm good at what I do, but other than that I'm somewhat alienated from the unit. _

_Even back in London I have few colleagues. I am friendly with the DI Lestrade, only because he lets me help with cases, but unfortunately the rest of the Yarders dislike me for doing their jobs faster and better than they can. My landlady, Mrs Hudson is a lovely woman who brings me tea often; although she reminds me constantly that she is not my housekeeper. Other than that it's me and Aristotle, the skull that sits on my fireplace. I have a few scattered acquaintances throughout London and outlying areas, mostly people that I've helped out of sticky situations. Like Angelo, who I proved was not part of a murder because he was breaking into a house across town. He gives me free food whenever I go to his restaurant. _

_I have to go, need to pack my bag so we can head to our next destination, they won't tell us where yet though which most likely means we're going across the enemy lines. _

_Until your next letter,  
Sherlock_

Sherlock read the letter before sealing it, hoping that he hadn't been too obvious in his search for answers from the other man, his curiosity towards one Dr John Watson increasing with each letter.


	5. Worry

It was a relatively quiet day for John, no injuries having been sustained the night before anywhere on camp. He had invalided all the men home that needed it and only one cot was occupied. Walters had passed out the day before, quite possibly of heat stroke, seeing as the man refused to pause his daily workouts even in 115° Fahrenheit heat. John had let the man rest in the medic tent after he had come to, snapping at John for not allowing him to return to normal duties. John had finally called the man's Commander who sternly told Walters he would spend the night in the medic tent and he would like it, or he would have to speak to Lieutenant Craig afterwards.

John sat at his desk, sorting through personnel files. "Oi, Watson! You've got mail!"

John was promptly hit in the forehead with the edge of an envelope Matherson had tossed at him. He nearly avoided a collision with a second envelope, grabbing it in time to keep it from poking an eye out.  
Matherson, blinding the best medic you idiots have wouldn't be very good would it?"

"Please, you could patch yourself up one-handedly while walking a tightrope over a pit of cobras."

"I appreciate the faith in my medical abilities," John laughed, "but I'm no Indiana Jones." Matherson nodded as he waved goodbye to John, promising to come visit him soon.

John propped his feet on the desk, finding a letter from Harry which he slid to the side, eager to read the letter from Sherlock. He tore open the envelope, unfolding the paper within and holding it up to read.

John was instantly relieved to see that Sherlock hadn't torn into him about being gay, if Sherlock had picked up on it at all. As John continued, he wondered if Sherlock was hinting at it as well, bits and pieces of the letter pointing John in that direction of thinking. He huffed a bit at Sherlock's excuse of love just being a chemical process; something had to trigger it yeah?

John Watson had been in love, or at least, he considered it being in love. Most people would call thirteen too young to be in love, but John knew how he had felt around Peter. Peter. Now there was a person John hadn't thought of in a while. It was too painful really, dredged up too many memories of growing up at home, being repressed by the people he had been forced to call parents. John grabbed for a piece of paper, itching to tell Sherlock his story. He knew it might cost him everything he had built with the soldier, but he needed to tell someone, anyone about that fateful day his world had changed forever.

_**Dear Sherlock, **_

_**Companionship and love are wonderful things. No matter what I've been through in life, I still have hope that I'll find love. Once you experience it, you'll believe in love and every fairy tale ever written. I may seem like a hopeless romantic but it's true.**_

_**I suppose I ought to tell you the whole story. When I was thirteen, I was a curious little bloke. I had a best mate at the time, his name was Peter. Peter and I were the best of friends, we did everything together. We were inseparable. **_

_**Well one day, we were hanging out in my bedroom, listening to some music and reading comic books. It was a pretty normal day; something we did all the time. But this day was different. We were reading our comic books, trading when we had finished. So Peter said that he found a magazine at the newsstand and stole it. I, of course, was shocked that he had stolen a magazine but was curious to see it. Peter had pulled it out of his bag and handed it to me. It was a nude magazine. A nude magazine filled with men, not women. Both Peter and I were intrigued. So we were filing through it, until we came across a picture of a complete nude man, everything visible from head to toe. I was surprised to feel this tingling within me. But I was even more surprised to see that I had gotten a boner from it. Peter was in a similar situation. Both of us had bulges in our pants. We both gave each other a look. We were both clearly confused. But then Peter leaned over and kissed me and I liked it. He clearly liked it too because his bulge grew bigger. We kissed for a few minutes. Then we heard someone coming upstairs and instantly pretended we were reading our comic books, both of us lying on our stomachs to hide our boners. **_

_**It was only my sister, luckily. I think she knew though, she knew what we had done but she didn't say anything. After that, Peter quickly left, hiding his erection as best he could. I went into my bathroom and dealt with mine. After that day, Peter would always bring over a nude magazine, we'd look at it, and then we'd experiment. It was our shared secret. Peter and I would act normal around everyone, no one suspected a thing but when we were alone, we could be ourselves. **_

_**So one day, I believe it was a year later; we were looking at a magazine when we saw one man giving another man a blowjob in it. Of course that got both of our blood flowing. I went to flip over to the next page when Peter stopped me. "Don't," he said. I asked why not. "I want to try it," he admitted to me shyly. I agreed and we tried to figure out how it would work. We both decided to strip off our clothes and go from there. I sat on the bed and Peter knelt in front of me. I could feel his breath on my thighs. Slowly he placed me inside his mouth and awkwardly at first, began pushing and pulling his mouth back and forth. We were both enjoying it. I, of course, was quick to come. We tried to be quiet but I guess we weren't. I had my mouth on him when my mother walked on us, horrified. She was even more horrified when Peter came in my mouth. She ran out of the room faster than I'd ever seen anyone run. Peter and I quickly clothed and I ran after her. I begged her not to tell father but she said she had to tell him something. She told him that Peter and I were getting to friendly and it needed to stop. That night, my father told me that I was never allowed to see Peter again. He said that I was forbidden to ever speak to him again. I had to switch schools and my father even gave Peter's father a job in a different city so that he'd be forced to move away. It broke my heart. I cried almost every night. I refused to speak to my mother for three whole months. **_

_**I haven't seen Peter since that day. But I know that I loved him. I think I loved him because I could be myself with him not because he was my soul mate or anything. I loved him because he made me realize who I was. He is the reason I believe in companionship and love. I know that I'll find someone who'll accept me and love me. I have to have hope of something and love is that something. **_

_**So that's my story. This is who I am. Now you know almost everything about me. You know my childhood and my heartaches. I do hope you will accept me because you are a better friend than any I have had before. **_

_**It is lovely that your mother accepted whoever you are, and whatever you wanted to be. Again, I am envious. You are great company, Sherlock. I enjoy receiving your letter. I look forward to them. You will always have a friend in me. **_

_**I hope your mission goes well. Be safe! I will patiently await your next letter. Thank you for listening. It is nice to finally tell someone about that. **_

_**A caring friend,**_

_**John**_

John felt physically exhausted as he signed the letter, years of frustration pouring itself onto the paper, tension flooding out of John's body as he finally told someone the story he had been hiding for over a decade. John knew that if he sent the letter the entire dynamic of his and Sherlock's friendship would change and John seriously hoped Sherlock wouldn't walk out of his life forever. It would be easy enough, what with Sherlock only needing to come to the medic tent if he were injured, and John never going on special missions. If this went badly, if Sherlock hated him for this admission, he'd never hear or see of the man again, and John wasn't sure if he could live with that.

After a few moments of intense deliberation with himself, John sealed the envelope and printed Sherlock's name on it with an uneven hand. He dropped it off in the inter-camp mail box in front of his tent, it being situated in the center of the camp for easy access.

* * *

If it were legal for Sherlock to kill Moriarty, he would have done so two days ago. The man really was an insufferable prat with a Napoleon complex. He talked either in a soft quiet voice or yelled, apparently having never learned to use his 'inside voice' as Mummy would call to Sherlock and Mycroft when they were arguing.

The bloody fool had almost killed the entire unit, tossing a crate of grenades around as if they were boiled sweets. Sherlock had grabbed the crate from the imbecile; his nerves already frazzled from the impending raid and had placed it in a far corner of the tent.

Moriarty also had some weird need to be the first to the supply truck, running out as soon as he hard it rumbling towards the camp. Sherlock thought someone really ought to teach the man to roll over and play dead.

As the heat stifled the men, Sherlock tried to keep his men focused, ignoring the goings-on of Moriarty's men who were laughing and singing in their tents, having a bloody good time playing poker. Sherlock saw the truck rumble across the sand, followed by Moriarty to leap out of his tent, followed by Moran.

Sherlock waited until Moriarty's unit had cleared the vicinity before sending his men to unload their supplies and fill their canteens. He approached Henry, the supplies truck driver, wondering if a new letter from John had arrived yet, the man being prompt with his replies. "Anything from John, Henry? Any letters at all for me?"

"No, none that I've gotten lately, expecting one?"

Sherlock frowned, suddenly worried he had revealed too much with his latest letter. "Ah, not really, well, maybe. It's nothing though, I'm sure he's just busy." Sherlock grabbed a crate of ammunition, carrying it back to his tent where a pile sat that he needed to sort out. Sherlock set the one he was carrying on top of another box before pulling out the stack of letters John had sent, rereading the last one sent, positive that he had been right about the hidden admission.

* * *

John sighed as the truck pulled away from the tent, no letter back from Sherlock. It had been eleven days since he had slipped the letter into the inter-camp mail. He was worried that he had offended Sherlock in some way with the story, too much information being given to someone who didn't care. He found himself needing to apologise, to try and fix the bond he had formed with Sherlock.

_**Dear Sherlock,**_

_**It has been almost two weeks since I last received a letter from you. Are you alright? I am beginning to worry. It is unlike you not to reply to my letter within a few days. Even before, when you've been on missions, your letters have arrived within five days.**_

_**Did I offend you in some way in my last letter? I am sorry. I shouldn't have told you that. I suppose we don't know each other well enough to reveal each intimate things about our lives. I hope I didn't scare you away. I will never mention it again if that made you uncomfortable. I am deeply sorry. I hope that we can still be friends. From now on, I'll only tell you funny stories from my life. I will stop with any personal stories if that is what made you uncomfortable.**_

_**Please forgive me for my rudeness in my last letter. I didn't even reply to anything you said. I just went off on my tragic story in my childhood. I apologize. Please reconsider writing to me again. I will not be so inappropriate this time.**_

_**Forever Sorry,  
John**_

John sealed the letter with a deep sigh, hoping that Sherlock would read it and send something, anything even if it was just a note to sod off. He knew Sherlock was busy, but the man had always answered back in a short amount of time.

* * *

Sherlock stared out at the setting sun, the temperature dropping even as the sand remained unbearably hot to the touch. Another sodding day without a letter from John. It had been over two weeks since the last correspondence between them and Sherlock missed John's stories enormously. He had stopped asking about the letters, not wanting to seem overly eager towards letters from John, not wanting anyone to get suspicious. It wasn't that non-traditional lifestyles weren't accepted in society, just not as widely accepted in the military and that was that. Plus, Sherlock figured the less anyone knew about him, the better.

But he had chosen to open up to john, to let him past his barriers and to try and get to know him. Apparently that had been a mistake.

Sherlock had been alerted that his unit would be moved back to base camp after they finished what was expected to be the third successful raid of this mission. So far casualties had been few, thanks to the work of Sherlock and Moran.

As Sherlock entered his tent for the night, he pulled out the letters from John, wondering what had gone so very wrong.

* * *

_That's it_, John thought to himself as he bandaged a cut on a soldier's arm. He just knew Sherlock was dead. Okay, so maybe he wasn't, but John hoped he was alive and well, albeit ignoring John. John had not heard from Sherlock for over three weeks and had almost given up hope of ever hearing from the man again.

John sank into the chair behind his desk, weary from the day and from constantly worrying about Sherlock. He just wanted to know that the man was alright, and whether he never wanted to speak to John again. John decided to write one last letter to Sherlock, reducing himself to pleading to the man.

_**Dear Sherlock,**_

_**It has been three weeks and I am starting to fear that you'll never reply. I guess I deserve this. I shouldn't have said all those things. I just hope that you are safe and well. I do not want to open a body bag and see you staring back at me. Or worse, having you die in a ditch somewhere. I pray that isn't the case. Please reply, even if it is to say that you never want me to write you again. I just need to know you're okay. Otherwise, I fear it might kill me. I couldn't live with the fact that I pissed off such a kind man because of my stupidity. **_

_**Please Forgive Me,  
John**_

John sealed the letter, pushing away from his desk to shove it in the mail box. He took in a deep breath and sent up a prayer that Sherlock would be alright, even if John never saw him again.


	6. Apologies

Sherlock was exhausted as he made his way back to the tent. The raid had been successful overall, the enemy forces having been taken care of. He wanted to sleep until the truck came for him and his crew, but heard the voice of Moriarty calling out for him.

He turned around, leaning against a crate. "What can I do for you Moriarty?"

Moriarty smiled a slimy, distrustful sort of smile and held out a few envelopes towards Sherlock. Sherlock took them, his brow furrowed as he read the name on each. They were letters from John, all sent weeks apart.

Sherlock reacted without thinking, grabbing Moriarty by the collar of his digicams and pushed him against the closest crate, "What the bloody hell are you doing with my letters?"

"Tsk, tsk Sherlock," Moriarty grinned, his hands wrapped around Sherlock's. "Wouldn't want all of these good men that work under you to know about your secret little lover now would you?"

Sherlock's grip loosened, allowing Moriarty's feet to touch the ground once again. "There's nothing like that between John and I. We merely talk to one another to pass away the dull days."

Moriarty pulled away, smoothing down his uniform. "And I'd bet my best Westwood that there's a little something more there. Two men all alone, the best at what they do? I can only imagine the _stimulating _conversations you two would have."

Sherlock sighed, his eyes still trained on Moriarty's. "And even if your ridiculous assumption was correct?"

Moriarty's smirk returned fully as he verbalised his carefully constructed dialogue. "My silence of course comes at a price. You let me walk out of here as the brains of this operation and your little secret is left between you and me."

Sherlock contemplated the idea. He had known that whichever team had done the most on the raid, as told by the personnel reports, would get extra time down, time he had planned on spending in John's medic tent. He knew Moriarty would just as easily run John's name into the ground without any extra information as he would tell Moran to pull the trigger. "Fine, I write that you came up with the plan to push your team over for the extra downtime and you leave John's name out of anything you might have to say."

"It's a deal," Moriarty grinned, holding out his hand for Sherlock to shake.

Sherlock took it, feeling as if he had just made a deal with the devil and turned to retire to his tent for the evening.

He pulled his uniform jacket off, draping it over his chair before he toed off his boots and lay on his cot. He opened the letters, the oldest one first and read through it. He felt hatred towards John's father for doing such a thing to his son, for not letting John be who he was.

Sherlock opened the next one, and read it through, his heart sinking as he realised John must have thought that he had toed the line and Sherlock realised he had never hated Moriarty more in his life.

By the time Sherlock had gotten through John's third letter he was seeing red, angrier then he'd been in a long time. John now though Sherlock hated him and yet still cared about Sherlock's well-being. John was twice the man Moriarty could ever be.

* * *

Sherlock had never been happier to see the sight of two trucks making their way across the dunes of the desert, sliding along in the sand. He and his men had already packed tents and organised supplies in hopes of the truck coming and were anxiously waiting when the first truck crested a distant hill. Anderson let out a loud whoop, jumping into the air as the men began to hug one another and congratulate themselves on a job well done.

Sherlock's team was packed and loaded onto the truck long before Moriarty's men, and were about to pull off when Moriarty caught Sherlock's eye and raised an eyebrow to which Sherlock nodded subtly as the truck roared to life and drove off towards base.

* * *

Sherlock had never been happier to see base camp in the distance as he tried to decide what he would say first to John. He needed to apologise and explain that he hadn't been ignoring him, that the son of a bitch he had to work with had blackmailed him and withheld his mail. He began to drum his fingers on his knee as base grew larger in the distance.

He was the first off of the truck, pulling his kit behind him as he raced towards his barracks. He threw his pack on his cot and grabbed a fresh undershirt and trousers, heading towards the showers. He washed quickly, still perfecting what he would say to John.

He would begin with an apology that would lead into a short explanation of the letters getting lost before he launched into his expository speech about how the letters had struck him.

As he towelled off and changed, he tried to keep his fears from swelling, hoping that John wouldn't ignore him, or hit him. He reasoned that John would at least hear him out, he was hoping for that much.

* * *

Sherlock pushed through the entrance of the medic tent, looking around for John. Upon spying the sandy-haired man he weaved his way towards the doctor. "John?"

John's head snapped up as he blinked at the form standing in front of him. "Sherlock?"

Sherlock took a step forward, wringing his hands. "John, I first off want to apologise. We weren't allowed mail until after the mission, to make sure we all stayed on point." Sherlock took a breath before forging on. "I think your father is awful and I want you to know that I don't mind at all when you share personal information with me."

John blinked at the influx of information before grinning. "Well seeing as that's all settled then welcome back. How was the mission?"

"Bloody awful," Sherlock griped, falling into the chair John had pushed towards him. "I had to deal with Moriarty and Moran the entire time and I wanted to repeatedly punch them. The mission itself went great, but having to deal with those two was close to unbearable."

"Sorry to hear that." John watched Sherlock, tossing him a bottle of water. "Drink up; you're not going to collapse of dehydration on my watch."

Sherlock grunted but unscrewed the cap and drank down half the bottle, wiping his lips afterwards.

John followed the movement of that pink tongue with his eyes, shifting forwards in his chair before catching himself, leaning away. "I, erm, missed you, well your letters…"

Sherlock gave John a lopsided grin and kicked his feet onto a nearby stool. "Missed you and your letters too John. It gets lonely out there."

John crossed a leg over to sit more comfortably and thought of how to word the next sentence without sounding like a creep. "I was, erm, thinking while you were on mission, that maybe you could give me a picture so that I can remember you better while you were gone."

Sherlock's grin grew despite him trying to stamp down the feelings in his chest. _Come on, you barely know the man. _"I would like that; you of course will have to give me one as well."

"I'll send it in my next letter."

"Agreed."

John smiled, leaning back into the chair, looking at Sherlock fondly. "So, you up for the mess tent?"

"Are you available Doctor Watson?"

John laughed at the formal use of his title, standing from his char. "Yeah, I'm off-duty for the night."

"Dinner it is then."

John grinned, holding open the door for Sherlock, feeling better than he had in weeks. Sherlock was back for the time being and everything was well.

* * *

**_For those who came for the Mature rating, you'll love next chapter when things get a little bit heated!_**


	7. Connections

It had been two gruelling weeks of Sherlock putting up with his unit's griping for not getting time off, instead running drills in the dry desert heat. They had all but stripped down to their skivvies by the time three drills were done and Sherlock was even uncertain of how much longer he could go on. Sherlock made sure each person had a full canteen when they arrived and allowed them frequent water breaks for which they were grateful.

Sherlock had merely told them that when the officers reviewed the information, they decided to let Moriarty's men take the time off, seeing as Sherlock's group was better at what they did. He thought of John often, trying to take time to see the man when he could.

Three weeks after returning to base from their last mission, Sherlock's men were called out for a new mission. They were being sent after a cell near Bahrain, one that the Army had been watching for a while.

The nights were quiet and Sherlock found time to sit and pen a quick letter to John, looking through the few photos of himself he had brought with him and decided on one of him and his dog, Bernard.

_**Dear John,**_

_**I miss you already if that's even correct to say. I miss your stimulating company. I feel like this mission is just one to keep us busy because of the complaints my unit has been making to the commander. **_

_**Inserted in this envelope is a picture of me that I brought to keep me smiling. It is a picture of me last year throwing a Frisbee to my Corgi, Bernard. I bought him to keep me company while I'm home. Currently he resides at my family Manor where a housekeeper's son keeps him busy. I do hope to receive a picture of you in return.**_

_**Occasionally I think of you while I am waiting in my tent, a new phenomenon for me. As I am sure you must have heard, I am not an easy man to get along with and I commend you for sticking with me for this long. I have been found to be autonomous, but only to those who are unable to provide me with intellectual stimulation.**_

_**I am also sure you have heard of my nickname, the virgin, which although is not true, it does hold its course for my time here in the Army. Although there are men that find me attractive, I need more than attraction to justify something as unnecessary as the act of sex. I see no point in it as I have learned to control my body unlike the fools around here that have to wank every night. It's like a boarding school dormitory.**_

_**I hope you are enjoying the air-conditioning in your tent, the heat out here is almost unbearable and the men are growing restless to return back to base.**_

_**Seeing as I am sure you are busy, I will cut this letter short and talk to when I receive your next letter.**_

_**Sincerely, Sherlock**_

* * *

John found the letter awaiting him at the medic tent three days later. That was the best thing about being a medic, someone always knew what tent you worked out of. John and Sherlock had an unspoken agreement about never using their names on the letters, instead Sherlock used the penname Shirley on the outside and John took on the name of Joan. If anyone really paid attention to it, it would have been noticed, but John and Sherlock both knew that by the time the letters were thrown in the sorter, no one paid any attention to anything other than what box to throw it in.

John opened the letter, the picture falling out of it and he took a moment to study the man in it. Sherlock's hair was much longer than the military cut he now sported, his hair falling in loose ringlets. John's fingers itched to run through the soft curls. Sherlock was much thinner in the photograph, his face sunken and John could tell this was when he'd still been using, probably right before Sherlock's brother had signed Sherlock up for the Army. Sherlock's face was less serious, but only by a fraction, mainly from the interaction with the dog. John would never have tapped Sherlock as being a pet person, but perhaps the dog was the only company Sherlock could keep.

John sat the photograph next to his desk, in a small box that contained personal items, a photo of him and his sister and his mother's locket. He took his shoes off, sitting on his cot to rest. He picked the letter up to read it, smiling at the fact that a man as serious as Sherlock would ever throw a Frisbee, much less own a Corgi.

A shiver ran through John when he read about Sherlock's virginity or lack thereof and though his curiosity was piqued at who Sherlock would let in close enough to be intimate with, his brain caught on the word wank and he repeated the word mentally, imagining Sherlock's voice saying it.

John placed the letter with the others in his safe box and closed his eyes, imagining what it would be like for Sherlock to be there, close and personal, even kissing him. John's hand slid to pop the button to his trousers, undoing the button. He palmed himself slowly, squeezing his eyes shut as he thought of Sherlock touching him like this, those long fingers grasping for his cock through the cotton of his briefs. John's breathing increased as he slipped his hand inside his pants, pushing them down with his other hand to free his cock. He stoked himself slowly, biting his bottom lip between his teeth. John arched into his hand, thumbing over the slit as blood rushed into his almost fully erect cock.

John didn't think much of wanking, would rather have a nice arse to thrust into, but the Army didn't readily supply him with willing men, and John didn't ask, no thank you, he would use his hand. Now that he had a tall, lean, gorgeous man to use as wank fodder, he thought that perhaps not all had been lost for the act itself. He imagined that gorgeous mouth of Sherlock's closing over him, taking John into all that hot, wet, heat, long fingers pressing into him as John writhed beneath Sherlock, moaning and begging for more, more, more.

John came with a soft cry as he squeezed the base of his cock, thrusting quickly into his hand as semen spilt over his hand and stomach. John lay there, evening his breathing as he looked around for a cloth or issue, thankful for being the only medic off duty in this tent. He cleaned himself off and tucked Sherlock's photo in the box under his bed before pulling his pants and trousers back up, righting his clothes before pulling out a pen and paper to write back to Sherlock.

**Dear Sherlock,**

**It is correct to say that, I feel the same way. For a while there, I feared you'd never write me back so I suppose I got used to missing you. I miss someone wanting me to be around, someone wanting to just sit with me and talk. I do hope the mission is going well. It must be since no one has been injured in two weeks. I think they are testing your endurance, seeing how much you can take. Just remember that you'll be back soon and then we can spend time together. **

**I enjoyed your photograph very much. Your dog is rather adorable and you two look like great friends. You looked good in that picture. I like your hair grown out a bit. You look handsome, well more handsome than usual. It is a really good picture, thank you for giving it to me. I will cherish it forever. I have sent a picture with this letter. It was the only one I could find. My sister sent it to me a few months ago. It was from the summer. My sister and her family and I went to the beach. My sister snapped the photo as I was getting out of the lake, which explains why I look so horrible. It was unexpected. I wish I had more than just my swim trunks on. I'm sorry I don't have a better picture.**

**As you already know, I am not a virgin. I had one sexual experience after that, with a guy from uni. It was a one night stand and I'm really not proud of it. I hope you don't think less of me because of it. Unfortunately, I am no better than your men. It gets...how should I say it...lonely in the med tent. I enjoyed your picture for more than just seeing you again. I'm sorry. I know it's inappropriate of me. I just find you very attractive and unlike you, I can't control my body, if you know what I mean. I hope you can overlook my flaw.**

**I would enjoy it more if you were here. Just imagine the snowy winters back home. Well, rainy winters for you. I'm really not busy, feel free to write as much as you'd like. Your letters are the highlight of my weeks. They are the only thing that keeps me going. I hope you are well and safe. I hope the heat dies out and you return back to base soon.**

**Missing You,  
John**


End file.
